During the month of April, autism is talked about, debated over and sensationalized more than the other 11 months of the year combined, so it stands to reason if you write a blog about autism you are going to hear more from people who have autistic children. They want to compare notes, celebrate progress, cry over setbacks, but, mostly, share with someone who "gets it".

One such parent and I were swapping stories, sharing the good times and the bad. It was nice. It felt comfortable. It felt welcoming. Until it didn't.

It got colder. It got weird. It got less welcoming. The change was subtle, but, I recognized it because I have felt it before. "Ryan is not in the autistic support classroom, he is mainstreamed". It was a statement, not a brag, not a contest. I was asked and I answered.

I have seen this change before in other faces of parents loving a child with autism. The expression falls somewhere between disappointment, jealousy, sadness, betrayal to maybe even a little indignation. The face, especially if it belongs to someone who's child is in fact in the autistic support classroom, says, "He is not autistic enough".

Just like the thousands of people who fall somewhere on the wide expanse known as the autism spectrum, there are equally as many family members who are trying to come to grasp with this diagnosis falling somewhere on the wide spectrum of acceptance. Like on any spectrum, some parents fall on one end while others fall at the other with tons of parents falling somewhere in between. Much of this may have to do with where their child falls on the autism spectrum, how much time they have had to process their child's diagnosis and where they stand in their relationships with the friends who seem to enter all autistic parents social circles, Denial and Acceptance.

Prior to knowing a child has autism, when we parents are in that "I wonder if..." stage, we are constantly comparing our child to their siblings, their classmates, their neighbors. Then once the autism diagnosis comes, the comparisons tend to switch from neurotypical kids to other kids with autism. It seems more "fair" and I totally get it.

We talk with other parents at therapy appointments, at social skills groups and we consume all we can online about other kids and adults with autism. There is AWEnestly a sense of gratefulness when we read a story online about a child with autism who seems "worse off" than our own. "Well at least my kid can_____" or "At least my kid doesn't____". I get it because it is hard when a child is "different" so it helps to know that in some realms, those differences aren't quite as different as others.

Some people with autism are much higher functioning and although all autistic people have strengths and deficits, some deficits are much more profound. I understand that a mother whose child has seizures, is non-verbal and unable to be toilet trained has a much different life than my son and me, and while I am empathetic to their struggles, I should never be made to feel "guilty". My son struggling with how and where to fit in and accept that he is "different" than most of his classmates is much different than another mother's son who is unable to communicate his basic needs. To say any one of them are "better" or "worse" feels like apples and oranges. Why compare an apple to an orange in the first place? Even though they may both be fruits, how they look, the way they grow, the climate they thrive in, are very different.

Yet we do it, because we are human. I have a wonderful friend who is in my "gets it" club. Her son and Ryan are the same age and they both have autism. We don't compare the exact location of where our boys fall on the autism spectrum, but, we seem to both be in a similar place on the acceptance spectrum. Sure, we compare notes and often find ourselves amazed by our sons' unique, yet similar, differences, but, mostly we support each other. We celebrate our boys successes and commiserate the days and moments that they struggle and the days and moments that we struggle. I have shed tears over her son's successes and struggles as she has Ryan's. We don't think about which one of our boy's is "more autistic", we celebrate them for exactly who they are and confide in one another as we wonder one day who they will be. Yes, we compare, but, mostly we share...with understanding, compassion and support.

I once was speaking at an event for mothers of children with varying disabilities. One mother whose daughter was non-verbal, in a wheelchair and on a ventilator told me that a friend with an autistic child explains that she feels "guilty" when she complains about her child's struggles since this mother whose child will never walk, talk or breath on her own had things so much "worse". This mother looked at me with love and understanding and said, "I tell her there is no need to feel bad. Her child has autism and wanders away. I am grateful knowing I don't have to worry about my child wandering and getting lost or hurt". Apples. Oranges.

Regardless of the degree of differences in abilities and disabilities in autism, we should never be made to feel bad or guilty for our child's progress. They have worked so hard to get where they are and their progress has nothing to do with anyone but themselves. Ryan does not look at someone with autism who is non-verbal and uses an iPad to communicate as being "worse" than him, Ryan sees a different way to communicate. Ryan does not believe he is "better" than a classmate in the autistic support classroom, he sees a student who learns better with more support. Ryan does not believe that he is "more autistic" than another autistic friend who is much more social than Ryan, Ryan sees a friend who just likes to chit chat while he does not. This is not because Ryan is hugely empathetic and extraordinarily kind, Ryan just knows that his progress, his struggles have NOTHING to do with anyone, but, him. As parents, we can learn from this...no matter where we fall on the spectrum of acceptance.

Ryan may be verbal, mainstreamed and blessed with the gift of perfect pitch, but, he is lonely, anxious and recognizes that he is "different". He is not "better off" he is not "worse" than other autistic kids. Ryan has strengths and deficits and where he falls on the autism spectrum is HIS place, HIS spot and he should NEVER be made to feel badly about this spot he has been placed on, and as his mother, neither should I. There should be no judgement of what makes someone "autistic enough" any more than parents should be judged on what makes them "accepting enough".

Ryan is smart. Ryan is funny. Ryan is compassionate. Ryan is musically gifted. Ryan is lonely. Ryan is anxious. Ryan is progressing. Ryan is struggling. Ryan is autistic. Ryan is Ryan and THAT is enough.

Regardless of where we as parents loving a child with autism fall on the spectrum of acceptance, when we preach and advocate that autistic individuals are "different, not less" than neurotypicals, we need to keep that in mind within the autism community as well.

Hope. Only four letters, certainly not a long word, but, a very big word.

Wiki defines hope as "an optimistic attitude of mind based on an expectation of positive outcomes related to events and circumstances in one's life or the world at large." Like most of what she wrote, Emily Dickinson's definition of hope is much prettier. Miss Dickinson gives hope wings:

"Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul and sings the tune without the words and never stops at all."

April is autism awareness month and there will be stories of hope and feathers everywhere you turn. From families of recently diagnosed children who are struggling to find the feathers in their souls to parents of adult children who found their feathers decades ago. Some days, as parents we experience more molting of our feathers than we like, which makes us feel exposed and vulnerable, but, in time the old feathers are replaced with new ones and our ability to hear the tune of our feathers returns.

Since the first moment I knew it was autism, I felt the feathers perch in my soul. At first the feathers were small as I had to grieve and accept that what I once hoped for him may change. I had a hard time feeling the feathers back then. As time passed, the feathers grew and I clung to each and every feather that perched in my soul for without the feathers, the only alternative was falling and crashing as I let go of hope. As one milestones after another passed him by, at first I would crash, but, in time I felt the tickle of hope that one day perhaps, he would catch up. With every feather that fell away, a new one took it's place helping me to hear the tune again.

When I would beg him to "look at me" I felt the feathers tickle my soul as I occasionally caught a glimpse of his eyes and saw his own hope reflecting back in my own. Ryan's feathers tickled his soul hoping that one day I would understand that he can see me and hear me even if he is not looking at me. Ryan clung to the hope that I would hear the unique and beautiful tune his soul was playing while drowning out the tune I always expected to hear. Some days I listened more than others.

In those early days, the feathers that perched in my soul were small, thus the tune they played was quiet. Over time though, the feathers grew and the tune got louder. I began to feel and hear hope more frequently. Hope was found in an unexpected hug, a beautifully written essay, a song being sung from the shower and communication through scripts that brought him joy. Yes, I swear I felt the feathers grow.

Hope is a powerful word and without it, Ryan would never be where he is today. It was hope that caused me to push, nag and prod him along. Not hoping for change, not hoping for him to be someone else, just hoping for him to be the best him he could be. And for me to accept that the best him, the perfect him, was better than the him I once imagined all those featherless years ago.

Decades ago, mothers were told there was no hope, not even the tiniest feather could be felt awakening their soul. They were told to institutionalize, give up, move on stripping them of their feathers and muting the tune their soul was so desperately trying to play. Without hope, there were no feathers, there was no tune, there was no "optimistic attitude of mind" there was just despair and hopelessness. My heart aches for the parents whose feathers were stripped away by those who thought hope was a waste of time.

Now today, when I share stories of Ryan's progress, of how far he has come, I write stories of hope, I share the gift of feathers. People tell me, "Ryan gives me hope for my son/daughter". I love that, but, at the same time it concerns me. I worry I may give "false hope", false feathers, as each autistic individual is different, but, then I question is there such a thing as false hope? Who wants to live without hope? Without feathers perching in your soul and singing a tune? Sure the tune is different for my child than yours, but, we still need to find the feathers that enables us to hear the tune in the first place.

If I stop sharing my feathers than I am no better than the so called "experts" that stripped away the feathers of all those mothers years ago. So I will continue to share my feathers, my hope, my tune because just like birds cannot fly without feathers, dreams and hope cannot either. Although I am no Emily Dickinson and my words will not span into the next century, for parents loving a child with autism, I'd like to think that in this century, in this moment, I too, give hope wings.

Hope is necessary. Hope is needed. Hope is real. Hold onto it. Feel the feathers inside you, inside him. They are there. Your child is trying so hard to fly and he wants you to fly with him and hear his beautiful tune even if the tune sounds different than anything you ever expected to hear. The tune is beautiful, and with or without the words, you can hear it, but, you have to listen, you have to hope so that the tune for both of you "never stops at all".

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Definition of Awe:"a mixed emotion of reverence, respect, dread and wonder inspired by authority, genius, great beauty, sublimity or might." Yep, someone should have consulted a mom before spelling AWEtis﻿m.